


Redder With Bloodstains

by Mwppff



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is a Little Shit, Benedict Arnold is an Asshole, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, George Washington is a Dad, Gunshot Wounds, Hamilton is not having a good time, Head Injury, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Kidnapping, Minor Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Surgery, Torture, Washington is going to kill all of these idiots, Whump, Worried Parent George Washington, but we still love him for it, though not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27221167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mwppff/pseuds/Mwppff
Summary: "Go home, Alexander."And Alexander did go home. Except New York City is British territory. So how did Hamilton sneak past all the British soldiers in a bright blue coat?He didn't.////////////////Hamilton gets captured by British soldiers when he tries to return home after being dismissed by Washington, and letters to the general's wife from Washington turn out to be both Alexander's saving grace and doom.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette & Hercules Mulligan
Comments: 27
Kudos: 117





	1. I Begged Him to Send You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first Hamilton fic, but this idea has been stuck in my head for months ever since my one-hundredth time watching the musical (lol). Anyway, thanks so much for showing interest and I hope you enjoy!

Alexander Hamilton arrived at the doorstep of his home still in a state of slight shock. 

Only hours before, a shouting match had taken place between himself and George Washington after he defied orders and took part in a duel against Charles Lee. Things had spiraled out of control from there, and the argument had somehow transformed into Hamilton ranting his frustrations about the older man’s unwillingness to give the aide de camp his own command. 

Again.

A few more harsh words were said before Washington once again referred to him as “son”, and Hamilton’s already steaming temper boiled over, crossing over a clearly marked line with his commanding officer. 

With a deadly voice, strangled with restrained anger, Washington had dismissed him without a second glance. 

Hamilton had staggered to his tent to collect his things in a daze, oblivious to the insistent questioning from both John and Lafayette. In one swift movement he had mounted his horse and quickly fled the camp without so much as a wave goodbye to his friends.

He rode for hours, only stopping to water his horse and give his cramping legs a break. 

On one such occasion, Hamilton made the mistake of glancing down at his sleeves which were still stained with black ink from writing innumerable amounts of correspondents for the general. The Caribbean immigrant heedlessly stuck his hands into the chilly autumn water to rid them of the dried liquid.

The stains only served as a reminder of his recent failure. 

When New York City finally became clear in the distance, the dark-haired man practically collapsed from off the back of his horse, his legs like lead from a ride that was supposed to take three days combined into one. Exhaustion tugged at the corners of his consciousness, but his desire to see his wife and collapse onto a soft mattress overrode any other needs that he may have worried about in another moment. 

The New York streets were dark, only dimly lit by the sparse lanterns scattered across the sides of roads and buildings. Hamilton had arrived in town during the middle of the night so, predictably, the city was deserted except for a few questionable figures who, when they caught sight of the flash of blue from Alexander’s uniform, decided he would not be easy prey and stayed their distance where they stood in their hunched positions against the wall. 

An audible sigh of relief left Hamilton’s lungs when his small home came into view and some of the previous day’s tension immediately released from his shoulders. A few more fast-paced strides had him on his front steps, and he reached somewhat lethargically for the doorknob-

A hand grabbed the collar of his coat and  _ yanked _ . 

Unfortunately, his muddled brain didn’t notice that some of the shadowed figures he had passed in the alleyways were wearing red coats. 

He was pulled backwards off of his front step and gagged as his collar painfully dug into his trachea as the British soldier who held onto his coat did not release his grip but continued to let gravity take Hamilton to the ground. 

After a few seconds he was dropped unceremoniously onto the cobblestone street and surrounded by men wearing red. He was hopelessly outnumbered and knew better from his time on Nevis to try to fight his way out. That is until one officer made to reach for the messenger bag slung across his right shoulder and a spike of adrenaline began to pump through the ex-aide de camp’s veins.

In his hurry to leave the army behind, he had forgotten to return the missives that he was scheduled to deliver to Mrs. Washington the next morning. The information did not contain her location or any vital information on the war effort, but they were still personal to Washington, and dismissed or not, Hamilton was not about to let the letters fall into enemy hands. 

If anyone who knew Hamilton was there to see the spark that suddenly appeared in his eyes, they would have fled the near vicinity at the sight of the fire that began to burn there . 

With all the strength left in his leaden limbs, he dodged the grasping hand of the recruit and rammed an elbow into the gut of the soldier closest to him, took a moment to be satisfied at the soft grunt of pain it expelled, got unsteadily to his feet, and  _ ran _ . 

He could hear the redcoats shouting behind him as he turned sharply and slid into a nearby alleyway clutching his bag close to his side as he went. Something ricocheted off of the wall to the left of his head and bits of flying brick found purchase in the soft skin of his cheek, slicing the flesh there. 

_ Shit.  _ They had opened fire. 

Hamilton figured that his pursuers decided it would be better to have a dead captive and blood stained missives rather than a runaway captive and no missives at all. He cursed his stupidity at leaving his gun with his horse in his half asleep state. 

He sprinted through the channel of connecting alleys, dodging gunfire as he went, and as he rounded another corner, he stopped. 

_ No, no, no. _

It was a dead end. 

He frantically looked for a way to scale the wall, the only thing between him as his freedom, and, in finding none, quickly spun around to look for another way out. 

There.

The alleyway he just came out of was a t-intersection and if he had turned left instead of right he would have been led out onto the main street where he easily could have lost the British in seconds. He cursed his seemingly endless bad luck.

He increased his iron-like grip on his satchel and made a break for the now visible road, only to be sent sprawling backwards onto the dirt of the alleyway by a British soldier rounding the same corner he just had. 

He scrambled to grab the dagger secured on his hip, determined to not go down without a fight as more soldiers flooded the cramped space, but his newly exposed stomach was met with the leather boot of a now angry red coat. 

All of the air  _ whooshed  _ out of Hamilton’s lungs in one movement and his fight for his dagger was forgotten as Alexander tried to force his protesting organs to once again operate. 

Hands grabbed at his arms and none-too-gently pulled him up so he was resting on his knees. Before the young man could protest, his satchel was ripped off over his head by the officer who had shoved their boot into his stomach, now recognizable as the leader of the bunch. No longer dazed from the kick, his struggling began anew as he twisted almost animalistically in the unrelenting grip of the soldiers holding him on the ground. The man rifling through his bag simply glared at him before delivering another strong punch to his face. 

Hamilton’s head snapped to the side while stars flashed in front of his eyes from the force of the hit, and his vision went white for a few moments before he regained his composure. 

Correction. Not a punch. A butt of a rifle to the side of his face. 

Hamilton’s brain cells reconnected just in time to see the head officer rip open the seal of the envelope on the letter to Mrs. Washington and start reading with barely concealed glee when his greedy eyes found the tell-tale signature of General Washington himself on the bottom. Glee gave way to confusion, then disappointment, and then a cheshire cat grin spread across his face as he glanced from the letter to Alexander to the letter and then back again. 

A pit formed in Hamilton’s stomach. 

The commander gestured to his troops with a nod to lower the guns still trained at Hamilton’s head, and even more alarm bells began going off in the revolutionary’s head. 

‘ _ Oh God,’ _ thought Alexander,  _ ‘They are going to take me alive’ _

From the moment the soldier had grabbed him by his jacket, Hamilton was prepared for death. If he was being honest, he had been prepared for death throughout the entire war. Expecting it even. 

But  _ capture.  _ Capture was not something he had prepared himself for. 

Hamilton was tough, There was no denying it. He had been through more horrors by the age of seventeen than most men go through in their lifetime, but that did not mean that he wasn’t the least bit petrified at the prospect of any type of suffering. 

Death was his old friend. Suffering was his unwelcome life companion. 

The letter was thrown on the ground in front of him, a clear gesture for him to read it, and as the soldiers released their death grip from his bruising arms, he hesitantly picked it up while throwing a suspicious glance at the smiling red coat and began to read.

... _ Martha I wish I could be in your arms once again… _

Insignificant if not a little personal. Hamilton’s cheeks flushed. 

_....No news has been delivered by Congress in quite some time… _

Not important, but true. The troops were going stir crazy as weeks passed with no word on how the rest of the war was going. Tensions were running high in camp with foreboding as the band of revolutionaries feared the worst. 

_...decided to send Alexander home to his wife as she wrote to me weeks ago with the news she is pregnant. I cannot in good conscience give the man I consider a son a command for the sake of both his unborn child and my own decidedly selfish parental feelings… _

Very,  _ very  _ significant. 

_ The man I consider a son.  _

_ The man I consider a son.  _

The words echoed inside Hamilton’s skull like a heartbeat and seemed to take over any other rational thought he may have. 

He would be lying to himself if he did not admit that he was beginning to see Washington as a father figure against his own best efforts, but to read in the general’s writing that he may feel the same way... 

  
It was…

Alexander was…

He didn’t know what to think. 

“I’ll take the half-witted look on your face as confirmation that the letter was talking about you,” 

Hamilton was snapped back to reality by the nasally voice of the British officer cutting through his jumbled thoughts, and could have kicked himself for displaying his usually carefully guarded emotions so freely. He settled on scowling at the older man instead in retaliation for the insult of his intelligence.

“Alexander Hamilton. Washington’s pet,” the commander sneered, “I’m not surprised that you are his designated errand boy for his wife as well. It seems like traitorous scum like yourself would have no problem slipping into that bed- oh sorry- um-  _ role _ ,” 

Hamilton had to bite the inside of his cheek to physically restrain himself from attacking the man in front of him as he knew it would only make the situation worse now that his identity had been revealed. He took to glaring at the ground instead, ignoring the blood that was now dripping into his eyes from his head wound. 

“Nothing?” the man asked looking slightly put out that he riled no response out of his captive, “I expected more from you Lieutenant Colonel. Your reputation precedes you for being notoriously loud-mouthed. No matter, I’m sure  _ General Washington, _ ” he spit the name out like a curse, “will be more than willing to do the talking for both of you,”

No longer willing to be nonchalant, Hamilton’s head snapped up to look at the red coat. The man smirked at his reaction before explaining. 

“This letter gives me all the evidence I need to know that Washington would bend over backwards for your worthless life in a heartbeat. I have a feeling all I have to do is have you call and he will answer,” 

Cold dread seeped into Alexander’s bones at the truth behind what the British commander was saying. 

Hamilton would have to be blind to miss the fatherly gestures and protective nature Washington regularly showed towards him. Whether it be making sure he had something to eat during the days where the aide de camp was drowned under a pile of correspondents or the slight tensing of the man’s broad shoulders whenever someone threw a whispered insult at the young secretary. 

And if Washington was telling his wife the truth in the letters, Alexander had no doubt the general’s protective streak would kick in, and the man would come running to his rescue. 

It would spell death for not only Washington, but failure for the entire war. 

With a deep exhale, Hamilton realized what he had to do. 

The relaxed grip on his arm gave him enough leverage to tug his wrist free from the soldier’s grasp, and his trembling hand finally found his dagger, aimed for his own heart and-

A shot rang out and pain blossomed in his leg. 

With a yell of agony, Hamilton instinctively dropped the dagger to clutch at the bullet wound lodged firmly in his thigh as white, hot pain crashed into him in overwhelming waves. The agony took his breath away, and it was all the young man could do to continue to gasp in gulps of air like a fish. 

“My apologies,” the commander said as he resecured his smoking gun, “Noble as that endeavor was, you can not escape that easily, my young friend,” 

Blood ran freely from the wound, staining his pants, and creating a small river in the dirt below him. The sight of so much spilled blood made Hamilton feel dizzy. Or was that just blood loss?

He did not have to reflect on it much longer as another officer’s rifle was once again slammed into the back of his head. 

“Washington will be thrilled to hear from you, I’m sure,” 

Darkness claimed him.   
  
  



	2. I Felt the Shame Rise in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington gets some work done. Well, kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! I will try to update regularly, but they may be harder as my quarter at college comes to an end. But don't worry because I am super excited to continue! Enjoy!

George Washington sighed deeply as he attempted to concentrate on the report in front of him while he sat in his empty office. 

He had been in a foul mood for the last two days, the aides deciding to give him space, as his argument with Hamilton weighed heavily on his mind. 

Washington knew deep down that he was too hard on the younger man, he had seen the flash of hurt in his aide-de-camp’s eyes at his cruel dismissal, but it seemed like the general was overly emotional in all areas involving Alexander these days. 

Any other sensible leader would have given the boy a command by now. To put it simply, Alexander was brilliant. His stamina and dedication were fiercer than any other man Washington had come across, and those qualities would surely carry into battle, spelling out countless victories for the revolutionaries. 

And yet… 

Washington was hesitant. 

From the moment the young man had walked into his tent all those years ago, Washington could not ignore the stirrings of parental affection that formed in his chest at the sight of the man dressed in a coat that was too large on his small frame with a fiery passion in his eyes that the Virginian thought was not unlike that of a wild stallion’s. 

The fierce protectiveness that Washington had for Hamilton had only grown since then and had transformed into something that the general had only felt with his own children. At first Washington was ecstatic that he had a newfound son, even if Alexander obviously did not reciprocate his affections, but that joy quickly morphed into horror as he realized that his son was in the middle of a war. 

And Washington had painted a target on his back. 

So the general had backed off. He only spoke of his deep levels of affection for him in his letters to Martha in secret. Only showed minimal levels of fondness to the lieutenant, not willing to give the enemy any motive to attack the secretary more than they already had.

Despite his attempts at distancing himself from Alexander, Washington could not stomp out the protective instincts that flared within him whenever the boy went out on a patrol or left to deliver correspondents, fear lingering in his heart that was only eradicated once the boy was back at camp and safe. 

Well. Safer. 

The general was not oblivious to the malicious whisperings and jealous murmurs directed at Alexander when Washington’s back was turned. Men were envious of the immigrant’s status as his right hand man and were not afraid to make that clear to Hamilton. Some things that the men insinuated made Washington’s blood boil, and he had to restrain himself from court marshalling the perpetrators right on the spot in fear of making the rumors about his favoritism only grow.

If Washington could not protect Hamilton from his own allies, how would he protect him from the enemy? 

That was only one of the many thoughts that made the war-worn general lie awake at night. 

It haunted his waking hours as well, echoing in his mind, making him shoot down Alexander’s persistent requests for a command vehemently. 

A scene of a recurring nightmare of Alexander dying amidst a mass of gun downed soldiers, the light having left his eyes by the time Washington stumbled to his side, flashed in front of the general’s unfocused vision and he moved a hand up to rub at his eyes in an attempt to alleviate his pounding headache. 

The letter that he had been holding for the last hour crinkled slightly in his grasp and Washington finally tore his eyes away from where they had wandered to Alexander’s empty desk for what seemed like the one-hundredth time that day.

Right. Time to get to work.

...

‘ _ You shouldn’t have yelled at him’ _

The commander-in-chief let out another exasperated sigh before abandoning his fruitless effort of getting any work done.

The shouting match between Hamilton and himself had been going through the general’s mind on a loop. Every harsh word exchanged, every anger-filled glare stuck in his head like a bad aftertaste, unable to be erased no matter how hard he tried. 

_ “Call me son one more time!” _

Washington’s eye twitched. 

Hamilton’s past was still somewhat of a mystery to Washington. He knew that his aide-de-camp was a very private person, but Washington could not help but want to learn more about his unspoken charge’s upbringing. Every time he tried, however, he was immediately shut down.

The general had gotten lucky only one night. 

During a rainy week that past spring, Alexander had worked himself half to death and was practically drunk from exhaustion. Washington had gently scolded the half-awake, twenty-two year old before carefully escorting the teetering man to his bed down the hall. Washington had removed his boots and lifted up the covers for him like he would for a small child, and with a rush of parental affection he couldn’t quite squash, he had brushed a stray strand of hair away from the boy’s face before heading towards the door.

“I’ve ne’er had a fath’r before. It’s n’ce,”

The sleep filled voice stopped him in his tracks, and warmth spread inside of him at the same time ice pooled in his stomach. 

“Go to sleep, Alexander,” he simply whispered softly before fleeing towards the glowing light of his office. 

In that moment, everything became so startlingly clear to the general. His son was a bastard. Hamilton’s father had either abandoned him or had not been in the picture at all. The flinches away from a gentle, fatherly hand on his shoulder, the denial at the title of “son”, and the ever present suspicion that appeared in his young charge’s eyes at any caring comment all added up to create a heartbreaking picture. 

“ _ Go home, Alexander. That’s an order from your commander,” _

_ “But, sir-” _

_ “Go. Home.” _

Washington buried his face in his hands. 

The look of complete betrayal on Hamilton’s face at his dismissal was what stuck with Washington most. 

It was the look of a son being betrayed by his father. 

And Washington had simply turned his back on him with a glare and let him leave without even a goodbye. 

With a start, Washington sat up straight at his desk, hands fumbling for the letter he had discarded, when he heard the telltale sound of the door knob turning.

To his relief and disappointment it was Hamilton’s best friend and his other aide-de-camp, John Laurens, simply there to deliver a bundle of letters. The tiredness the general felt over his concern for Alexander reflected in the young man’s eyes for a brief moment before Washington schooled his face into the scowl he had been so fond of displaying over the past two days. Laurens, seeing the closed off expression, snapped to attention.

“I have incoming correspondence for you, sir,”

“Yes, I can see that, Lietenuit,” 

A shadow passed over the younger man’s face and the general wanted to kick himself for his harshness. 

“Feel free to leave them on my desk. You are dismissed, Laurens,” he said in a much gentler tone, something akin to an apology shining in his eyes. 

With a brief upturning of his lip, Laurens deposited the stack on his desk and left. 

For the third time in the past hour Washington sighed once again and sent a disparring glance towards the pile before-

He looked again. 

Then again. 

And again. 

Because there, clear as day, at the bottom of the stack was a letter whose corner was stained with blood. 

With uncharacteristically trembling hands, he reached to remove the letter from the pile like it was a wild animal that would lash out at his exposed hand at any sudden movement. 

His fingers closed around the letter and he immediately drew back. The blood was fresh. 

His fingers came back red. 

But who’s…?

His eyes slipped towards Alexander’s desk and realization struck.

Slipping out of his shock, he violently ripped open the red stained envelope, uncaring of the blood -  _ Alexander’s blood- _ now staining his fingertips, dreading what the letter would say, but unable to bear not knowing if his suspicions were correct. 

Confusion overtook him when he saw who it was addressed to. It was to Martha in his own hand, but then icy terror shot through his veins when another spot of red, this time on the paper, caught his eye. 

... _ the man I consider a son… _

It was underlined with red but in a darker shade, and with a sinking feeling in his gut he realized that meant it was old. 

Seeing nothing else on the front he flipped the letter over frantically, wanting- no  _ needing _ more information. 

The letter fluttered to the ground. 

Washington stood up so quickly that he knocked his chair over in the process, but his wide eyes remained glued to the taunting words that glared up at him in red. 

_ Hamilton sends his regards.  _

The conformation that the British had Alexander would have been enough to send Washington over the edge, but it was the signature, written pristinely at the bottom in blood, signed by a man that Washington knew hated him above everything else that made his world collapse. 

_ Your old friend, _

_ Benedict Arnold  _

A low buzzing noise had started to fill Washington’s ears as the shock of the situation he was in began to overtake him. 

Arnold had Hamilton. 

_ Arnold  _ had Hamilton. 

Arnold had  _ Alexander. _

_ Arnold  _ had  _ his son. _

He knew. Washington knew this would happen, but his own selfish emotions had gotten in the way, and now Alexander was going to pay the price.

Oh God, had they jumped him the moment he stepped foot off camp? Had he missed the boy’s call for help while he was stewing his own anger?

Had they shot his horse out from underneath him? Washington had seen men be crushed under the weight of their steeds, and the pain was incredible. 

Was he even alive? Was the letter sent to flaunt the boy’s death by the traitor’s hands?

All of these thoughts hit Washington in a tidal wave of panic, each one more terrible than the last. But then one thought hit him that nearly made the general’s already weak knees almost give out. 

He had sent Alexander away. 

This was his fault.

The blood Alexander would shed would be on his hands.

His blood stained fingers once again stared up at him, but this time the meaning was so much worse.

But then, another set of slightly smaller hands were tightly gripping his own bloody ones. 

Funny. Washington didn’t notice anyone walk in the door. 

“-ir! General! General Washington! Where are you hurt?”

Somewhere in the back of the general’s mind he belatedly realized Laurens was now at his side. Inquiring about his health with an alarmed expression on his face. He must have heard the crash from the hall, ran back, took in the blood, and jumped to the wrong conclusions. 

Now aware of himself, Washington held up a shaking hand signaling the young man to stop his insistent tirade. 

“I’m fine, Laurens,” the general said in what he hoped was a steady voice. “I simply cut myself on the letter opener and surprised myself,” 

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him the truth.

If Laurens found out that his best friend was suffering in enemy hands, he would be inconsolable. 

At the slightly suspicious look thrown his way (George was never a good liar) he made sure to reassure him once again. 

“Honestly, lieutenant, I’m alright. I’ve just been a little on edge the last few days. I’m sure you can understand why,”

Guilt burned in the back of his throat at the far-off look the statement put in his aide’s eyes, but it needed to be done. 

“Oh, of course, sir. I’ll go retrieve some bandages for your hand,” and he was out the door without another word, his suspicion forgotten in his own turmoil.

When the boy’s coat had disappeared around the corner, Washington bent down to pick up the fallen letter, holding it like it would turn to dust in his hands, and put it in the farthest recesses of his desk. 

By the time Laurens returned with the bandages it was long hidden. But the final word sloppily written on the bottom of the page in Alexander’s hand was seared into his mind. 

_ Boston _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Angst. I sometimes feel like I am too mean to these guys. Let me know what you think! Feel free to share and thoughts you had in the comments and kudos are always welcome! Thanks for reading!


	3. Talk Less, Smile More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British are done with Hamilton's bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this took a while to update. I just finished up my first trimester of college a week ago so things were pretty crazy throughout the month of November. Thanks for the patience and enjoy!

The British were about ready to call it quits and return Hamilton to the revolutionaries before they finally made camp for the night.

Two days had passed since the British had captured him in New York, the travel time much longer due to Alexander’s continued escape attempts while they were on the road. The young revolutionary had managed to annoy every last officer between his constant struggling and endless tangents that left every one of them wanting to throttle their prisoner.

But Alexander waited for his opportunity to strike.

Success came to him during a simple rest stop to water the horses when Hamilton was left unattended where he was left standing tied to a soldier’s horse while the men took care of their duties, most likely desperate to escape the never ending flow of words that had been spilling out of the young man’s mouth since they had begun to move. His wrists, already slick with blood from the constant tugging and chafing of the ropes due to the walking speed of the horse, were easily able to slip out of the rushed bindings, and he disappeared into the nearby forest. 

He probably made it about two miles before the British predictably realized he was missing, and the sound of pounding hooves found him about three hours later despite his best efforts at putting distance between himself and the British commander that had captured him.

Though the blood trail and crippling limp because of the bullet still lodged in his thigh did not help him much in his attempt. 

The commander had simply chuckled with an expression on his face that an adult would use when laughing at a foolish child and ordered that the men travel at a canter for the next three miles due to the wasted time spent looking for him. The order was given with a maniac gleam in the man’s eye, and Hamilton felt his stomach drop at the concealed malicious intent behind that demand. 

After three miles down the rough, uneven road, Alexander was left with a bruised ego and also ribs once the horse mercifully slowed. His body, throbbing with a multitude of deep cuts freshly marred into his arms, legs, and stomach from being dragged across the rock-lined terrain, was forced upright by jeering redcoats as they made him continue their relentless pace set by the redcoats’ mares as every new injury screamed at him and the newly tightened ropes tugged on his now sprained wrist. 

As they finally made camp for the night, a second opportunity presented itself.

The irritated commander had decided that it was becoming too dark to travel any farther, immediately glaring at Alexander after his announcement, when the shorter made a cheery comment at the news, knowing he was fully responsible for their delay. 

They settled in a nearby clearing, and Hamilton was bound and propped up against a tree that was just within the ring of light created by the smoldering fire to keep him in a line of direct sight, but of course not close enough that he could feel its warmth or his endless commentary could be heard.

His drab looking night turned in his favor, however, when a brave foot-soldier came to bring his meager dinner of a small slab of most likely spoiled meat. The young man had quickly retreated back to the safety of his comrades around the fire, unnerved by the dark-haired man’s moody glare that had followed his every movement, and Alexander turned his dark look onto the disgusting food that was presented to him, not planning on eating any of it, when something caught his eye.

A knife and fork was sitting there neatly next to the chipped and cracked plate. 

Hamilton stared dumbly at it for a second, not believing his luck, before quickly snapping into action. With bloodless fingers from lack of circulation to his hands, he snatched the knife up, quickly concealing it in the space between his legs. Sparing a quick glance to check that the British were occupied, he grabbed the knife by the hilt, facing the blade towards himself, and began to saw at his bindings. _.  _

After what seemed like hours, a quiet  _ snap  _ could be heard as the ropes finally lost their battle against the dull knife and broke. Uncaring of the blood seeping into his jacket from where the blade accidentally sliced into the flesh, Alexander began working on the ropes binding his ankles, trying not to think about how much blood he had, at this point, actually lost. 

Suddenly, he froze, hearing the yell of one of the men gathered around the fire. The blood he did have left turned to ice with the fear that he had been spotted, but it was simply one redcoat shouting rather obnoxiously as it seemed at some point during his ministrations they had foolishly broken out the alcohol. 

When at the last his numb fingertips managed to untie the last knot of the rope, he couldn’t help but let his lips twitch into a small smile at the redcoats’ obvious stupidity at both giving him a weapon and drinking on the job. 

Knowing another slow run into the forest would most likely once again lead to his capture, his sharp gaze landed on the horses gathered about one hundred feet to his right, and adrenaline began to pump like wildfire through his veins at the promise of an escape route. Glancing warily at the now inebriated soldiers once more, he slowly began to rise on his only operable leg before vanishing into the nearby shadows. 

Whatever luck that was with him seemed to run out as the commander emerged from his tent, most likely intent on yelling at his men for their insubordination, but before he could utter a word his eyes were drawn to the now prisonerless tree.

Hamilton’s heart began to beat wildly in his chest as the enraged looking man began to march purposely towards his position, and the revolutionary crouched behind a large bush in an attempt to conceal himself, ignoring the branches poking uncomfortably into his face and chest knowing any movement would give him away. When the man finally made it to the tree-line where he was hidden, Alexander was sure that his location would be given away simply by the sound of his heart pounding out of his ribcage, but the redcoat was oblivious to his presence, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see through the inky blackness that had fallen over the forest. 

The ex-aide-de-camp shot a helpless look towards the waiting horses before stealing himself and taking a careful step towards them when the officer's gaze shifted to his left.

A twig snapped.

Rage filled eyes immediately found his crouched figure and a startled breath left Alexander as large hands reached for him. 

But he still had the knife.

With a swing that was not as clean as he would have wanted it to be, the younger man swiped at the commander’s outstretched hand, eliciting a hiss of surprise as the flesh there was shallowly sliced. That was all the distraction Alexander needed as he bolted towards the closest horse on unsteady legs, determined to escape the murderous look that had appeared in his captor’s eyes. With a shout of pain caused by the weight on his injured leg stepping in the stirrup, he began to swing his other leg over the side of the saddle-

Fingers dug into his bullet wound and a breathless scream escaped his mouth as he stopped mid-movement and fell off the horse. 

Static flashed in front of his eyes as his body hit the ground, clutching uselessly at his left leg as he desperately tried to relieve the hot electricity racing up and down the limb as the wound flared with a wave pain, while spouting strained curses at his attacker. A hand grasped at his hair, forcing his head up, and he was left gasping for breath as the pain in his leg finally subsided, and dread filled him as he realized he dropped the knife in his agonized haze. Again.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” the commander said sweetly in his ear though Alexander was not oblivious to the rage that was simmering dangerously underneath the surface of the words. Still reeling from his latest maltreatment, the only thing that the blue-coated man could do was shoot him a half-hearted glare and spit at the man’s boots while saying something that would have even King George blushing on his behalf.

“Perhaps we should take a look at that wound for you,” the older man once again whispered but this time all pleasantness was gone from his voice and instead was replaced with all the frustration the commander had been bottling up all day at Hamilton’s defiance. Slightly startled at the man’s mood swing, Hamilton finally made lasting eye contact with his captor and was met with a hardened gaze that held a promise of bloodshed. 

“Bring me the forceps, a needle, pieces of cloth, and be useful for once and hold the brat down!” 

The barked order had the less intoxicated men stumbling over, and that’s when Alexander began to struggle. 

He escaped from the commander’s hold, retching his hair painfully out of the man’s hand, but before he could make it to so much as a sitting position, hands were harshly pushing him onto his back, holding his arms and ankles down with bruising grips. Rationally, Alexander knew that the bullet needed to come out as infection would set in with it sitting there, but he knew that the surgery would be closer to torture than actual healthcare. 

An unwarranted punch to his previously rifle whipped cheek had him gasping in shock, and a piece of cloth was jammed between his teeth while another was tied hastily around his head, keeping it in place, and he gagged on the intruding fabric as it scraped against the back of his throat. His protests at his lack of vocals were muffled against the rough cloth and the commander smiled at the displeasure clear in his eyes at being silenced.

“Ah finally, some peace and quiet. I should have done that hours ago,” The men around him laughed openly at the joke, they too happy to see his suffering.

If looks could kill the man would be dead. 

At the appearance of more soldiers, this time carrying the other things that the commander had asked for, he broke off his glare, putting all his focus on struggling anew as the soldiers doubled their efforts at holding him down. During his feral movements, he caught a glance of the forceps gleaming in the firelight as they were handed to the commander of all people (definitely not a qualified surgeon) before his world erupted in agony. 

It was not a surgery. 

It felt as though the man had simply grabbed a piece of the angry flesh inside the wound and twisted, and as Hamilton buckled wildly against the hands keeping him from escaping the blazing fire ripping through his leg, his neck strained to look at the wound and realized that was exactly what the commander was doing. Alexander screamed and screamed behind the gag, uncaring that the enemy might think that he was weak, unable to even spare them a thought as the anguish of his torturer’s ministrations encompassed all his senses. 

Hamilton’s head felt like it was underwater; the only sounds filtering through were the hooting of the men holding down his limbs, and his own muffled screams that ripped at his throat and transformed into silent cries when his vocal cords eventually gave out on him completely. The muscles in his arms and legs bulged in his efforts to escape the unrelenting restraint of the soldiers’ hands while the commander still mercilessly pulled and prodded at the open wound in his thigh like a mad scientist. Alexander’s world became a landscape of agony as he writhed on the clearing’s floor, helpless to put a stop to the crude operation as his vision simply faded to red haze, leaving him in a world made only of fire and pain. 

With a final harsh  _ yank  _ the bullet was removed from his leg, and Alexander let out one more soundless noise of pain before he went completely boneless, shaking like a leaf on the ground and panting like he had run to Philadelphia and back. As time passed the world did not clear like he expected it to, and he belatedly realized that he had worsened his concussion in his attempts to escape, having thrown his head back unconcernedly onto the ground while he was lost in his torment. 

Several drawn out moments passed where he feared he would lose his stomach as the world swam around him in nauseating waves in time with the crescendo pounding in his head until he finally was able to glance to his left to see the commander calmly writing on a piece of paper, Alexander’s blood still staining his hands, with a content smile on his face. The younger man came to the conclusion that the man must be clinically insane, and he could not squash the small spike of fear that was planted into his heart at the sight of the obviously unhinged man. 

“Ah, back with us I see,” the commander said cheerfully when he felt Alexander’s bloodshot gaze slide to him. Hamitlon looked to his right and was startled to see that the fire had died down substantially, signaling that a large amount of time had passed in his state of semi-consciousness. He was able to prop himself up on a shaking arm just long enough to see his leg where an alarming amount of blood bleed freely onto the ground, creating a large puddle that had pooled next to his leg in the grass. At the sight, his face paled multiple shades as the other cause of his disorientation was explained.

“Don’t worry,” the commander said, interrupting his unusually sluggish thoughts, “that will be taken care of in due time. Right now, however, I thought we could be civil and write a letter to General Washington,” 

Hamilton didn’t know whether to laugh at the fact that the man wanted him “to be civil” after he had barbarically dug a metal instrument into his leg or rage at the implication that the man wanted to contact his general. 

“Keep in mind that I am not asking,” the redcoat added with a warning glance and Hamilton knew that he could not take another session like the surgery if he wanted to remain at least semi-coherent, so he reluctantly reached for the quill and parchment offered to him and, to his growing horror, realized that the ink collected on the writing instrument’s tip was not ink at all but his blood. 

After getting over his initial disgust and shock at the discovery, he gestured with his other hand towards the cloth in his mouth with a pointed look towards his captor. 

The commander laughed. “Writing does not require speaking I’m afraid,” and the man’s simpering smile told him he knew that silencing him was the worst punishment he could dole out. 

With a glare sent in the man’s direction that probably looked more like a tired glance, Hamilton hovered his shaking hand over the parchment held unsteadily in his other hand to signal he was ready. 

“Boston,” 

Alexander copied the word that should have been much easier to write than it was, and began handing over the paper.

_ Benedict Arnold _

The signature jumped off the page at him, and all the pieces clicked together. 

Why the man looked slightly familiar, his obvious vendetta against Washington, and the man’s psychotic tendencies. Back at camp, he had not met the man first hand, he had only caught a glimpse of him during a routine visit before news had later reached them that he had become a turncoat. 

But he remembered the day that his betrayal was revealed. Unconcealed pain had appeared on General Washington’s face at the news, disbelieving that one of his dearest friends had stabbed him in the back and betrayed their cause. Apparently the man’s change of heart was due to the jealousy Arnold felt towards Washington himself in some twisted way. 

That was the day that Benedict Arnold became another name on the aide-de-camp’s hit list. 

Throwing the finished letter aside, Alexander used whatever strength he had left to launch himself at the British commander- no  _ general _ \- intent on wrapping his hands around the traitor’s neck, but his target seemed un-phased at the movement, and the smaller man once again found himself trapped on his back. 

“I see that you recognize my name, lieutenant. You should feel honored that Washington cried over my betrayal with you in his presence. Though I would expect he would do nothing less with his  _ pet _ ,” Arnold spat, anger coloring his words as he was forced to wrangle the ex-aide’s squirming body into submission.

Alexander’s anger spiked at the confirmation of the man’s identity though it was immediately followed by fear as he recalled every single horror story that he had ever heard about the man that had been shared quietly by the other aide’s when the general was not around. 

He was right in his assumption that the man was crazed, but it was in that moment he realized exactly how insane the man imprisoning him was. He had the blood of countless innocent women and children on his hands, killing them in despicable ways with methods that Alexander was sure that even the British frowned upon. 

Arnold must have seen some of the ill-concealed fear reflected in his eyes as he smiled at the younger man’s apparent distress. The much larger man moved to flatten himself against the struggling aide to pin him in place and Hamilton froze immediately at the positioning, lungs stopping mid-breath in panic.

“I guess you’ve heard about me from other sources, as well,” Arnold whispered and Hamilton could feel the man’s warm breath against his ear. The two laid like that for a painfully drawn out moment while each waited for the other to make a move until Arnold finally relented and moved to his former position at the smaller man’s side seemingly satisfied. Hamilton was ashamed to realize that a tear of terror had tracked its way down his face during the stalemate. 

The previously discarded letter was picked up by the turncoat before Arnold dropped it into the blood puddle still forming by the ex-aide’s leg. 

“Oops! How clumsy of me. I hope George does not get too concerned on your behalf,” Arnold said while holding the slightly dripping letter with a smug look on his face that told Hamilton that was exactly how the man wanted Washington to feel.

“Now, my young friend, I will leave you to get patched up while the letter is swiftly delivered,” And to his dismay, a British soldier dressed in a blue coat galloped away with the blood-covered letter while another approached with the needle that was asked for earlier. 

With one last deranged looking grin, Arnold let his subordinate officer take his place at Alexander's side and walked calmly back to his tent. The needle plunged into Hamilton’s leg and agony once again sparked inside him as he internally cursed Benedict Arnold to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I did not mean to make the chapter that long lol but I guess that just makes it better for you guys which I can't complain about! We'll see some more Washingdad next chapter as both parties finally arrive at Boston. Shit will go down. I hope you enjoyed it and feel free to comment any thoughts you had during the chapter! Thanks!
> 
> -Mwppff <3


	4. Son, I Need You Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton and Washington both make it to Boston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you all are enjoying the holiday season. My gift to you is this 4,500 world long chapter. I hope you enjoy!

Alexander’s bloodshot eyes glared exhaustedly at the redcoat who had just poked him in the shoulder with the end of his rifle, watching him return to his post at the cell door. 

The small group of British soldiers had arrived at their destination over a day ago, Hamilton in tow. The immigrant was mortified to admit that he may have shed a tear in sheer relief when Arnold had finally dismounted from his horse, handing the reins off to an awaiting officer signaling that the tireless trek had finally ended. His injured leg, which had barely held his weight the day before, had been rendered useless after Arnold’s medical experiment and had dragged behind him for most of the fourteen hour march, causing the ex-aide to fall more than he had actually walked due to both a lack of balance and blood loss, wrists protesting fiercely at the harsh movements as they were already bleeding and raw. The wound on his leg, freshly stitched, had pulsed angrily at every step. 

‘ _ Stitches were a kind description,’ _ Alexander thought through a cloud of fatigue.

Hamilton had caught a glimpse of his leg only once while Arnold’s goons were securing him to the horse that had been selected for him to follow behind for the day and that once glimpse was enough to leave Alexander’s stomach flipping uncomfortably in nausea for the next half an hour. He wouldn’t be surprised if the soldier assigned the task of sewing the wound up had never seen a needle in his life.

Figures.

The ex-aide-de-camp jolted suddenly, eyes which he didn’t realize were closed snapping open at the slightly harsher second prod from the guard. 

Alexander, to put it in plain terms, was utterly exhausted. He had not gotten a wink of sleep the night before the fateful duel with Lee and had ridden straight to New York immediately afterwards where he was, of course, captured. With a morbid jolt of self- pride, Hamilton was startled to observe it had been a whole six days since he had last slept. 

“Slept” being the few necessary hours he usually snuck in between writing missives and constructing letters to Congress. 

He could imagine the disappointed look on John’s face now. 

Sitting down against the stone wall of the cell had felt better than it should after spending months sleeping on a cot, but he had been uncaring of even the shackles being manhandled around his torn wrists and then secured to a ring in the floor. His eyes had fallen closed almost immediately after the British had turned to leave, body gladly giving into the overwhelming urge to sleep, but a boot tapping his ankle had had him confusedly reopening his eyelids..

“No sleeping,” the soldier had said as though it was an everyday marching order, and Hamilton had looked at him incredulously until he realized it was most likely Arnold’s doing. 

Figures.

Hours had passed with no stimulation for his overly active brain, and it became increasingly harder and harder to keep conscious, the only thing keeping him semi-awake being the cold seeping into his bare back and shoulders from the icy stone behind him (they had apparently decided that, upon arriving at the fort, he was not in need of his coat or undershirt in the late fall). He dared not shift his stance from where he was positioned carefully against the wall to escape the growing cold, however, as the constant pain in his leg had finally begun to fade into a piercing ache instead of a debilitating burn that had originated from it since its further maltreatment. 

It took him far too long for his normally quick brain to figure out what Arnold was attempting to accomplish with keeping him so tired and cold, and the moment of realization that should have come much sooner had anxiety churning hotly in his stomach, warming him welcomingly but unpleasantly. 

He heard of many prisoner of war tactics from multiple comrades who had lived to tell the tale of British imprisonment from either a prisoner exchange or a rescue. They had explained how some officers forewent traditional pain and instead went straight to mental torture, breaking them down by neglecting their basic needs of food, water, and sleep.

“It makes the mind easily malleable and defenseless,” one of the less haunted men had elaborated from his bed in the medical tent after General Washington had led men to capture the fort that the man he was talking to and other revolutionaries had been held in a week prior. His fellow soldier had shared his experience with a trained calmness, but Hamilton had seen the wild look hidden just behind the man’s eyes as a chill went down his own spine. 

_ Malleable _ . 

_ Defenseless. _

The physical stress that would be put on the body is not what scared Alexander. He had gone longer than most without a proper meal and sleep; it was the fact that he would no longer be in control of his own mind, the thing he depended on the most. 

Even when he was a small child on Nevis, he had relied on his mind for everything. He had used it to come up with new ways for him and his mother to earn money in their small shop so they wouldn’t starve. Then, later, when he was left completely alone in the world after the death of his cousin, he had used it to study his way into a clerking position offered by his mother’s old landlord. Finally, he had written his way off of the cursed island itself towards his future in New York through pure genius alone.

His tongue flicked uncomfortably against the gag still in his mouth in thought.

If he didn’t have a clear mind and his words, what did he have? The answer whispered in the back of his mind unwillingly. 

‘ _ Nothing, _ ’

And even through his denial and fading willpower, he noticed his thoughts becoming muddled and sluggish, as he was unable to even come up with a creative insult to internally hurl at the irritated looking redcoat who had now just poked him for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. 

As more time passed, the muscles of his arms and lower back began to uncomfortably spasm as the sun fell below the horizon, the small stone cell slowly turning into an icebox as the temperature dropped well below fifty, and he eyed the finely tailored coat his guard wore with ill-concealed envy. Before he knew it, the floor underneath him became freezing as well, and his legs began their own shivering, which led to his jaw aching as his teeth clenched the gag from the struggle of holding back the wails of pain that desperately wanted to emerge from his blue-tinged lips as the involuntary movement continuously shifted his tortured thigh. 

As the first stirrings of daylight filtered through the miniscule window located above his head, Alexander was, in all senses of the word,  _ miserable _ , and, of course, with his luck, that was when Arnold decided to pay him his first visit since he had entered the fort two days prior. 

Figures.

“Ah, Lieutenant Hamilton, up bright and early I see,” Arnold said much too gleefully as he appeared in the doorway of Hamilton’s cell, and Alexander hated the way a jolt of fear went through him at the sound of his voice. 

Past the point of caring about the man’s annoying antics, the younger man did not even warrant him with a physical response, pointedly not looking in the lunatic’s direction, as all his strength went towards simply keeping his eyes open. 

“I do hope my hospitality is up to your standards,” the general spoke once again, harsher this time, most likely disappointed at the lack of response from the usually hot-headed man. 

Still nothing. 

Something in Arnold's ever-changing mood must have shifted, as he heard the tell-tale sound of a cell door being flung open, and he snapped his head up to see the turncoat quickly stomping towards him. Alarm bells went off in Hamilton’s head at the unexpected and insane action, and he quickly attempted to right himself from his slumped position against the wall, only to stop with a muffled groan a moment later as it tugged unbearably at his stitches. 

As Arnold finally reached the ex-aide to tower over his much smaller figure, Alexander swore he saw a flash of pure madness in the man’s eyes before a large hand was being wrapped around his throat and, without any warning,  _ squeezed. _

Arnold was pressing so tightly on his windpipe that no oxygen could get through the newly crushed airway, and Alexander felt his mouth open and close sporadically, desperately trying to bring a breath of air into his screaming lungs. His legs uselessly strained and struggled to find purchase on the smooth stone in a hopeless effort to escape from the bruising grip holding him firmly against the wall behind him, his blunt nails scratching at the offending hand around his throat futilely. 

A dull roaring had begun to echo in his ears, almost like he was underwater, and the comparison only served to make him more frantic as flashes of death and destruction flickered in his mind as the reminder of the hurricane. 

Screaming. Thunder. Wind. Rain. Water.  _ So much water. _

He subconsciously heard the muffled voice of Arnold talking to someone over his shoulder as his limbs went limp, his pitiful struggles halting, as they became too heavy to operate. Numbness overcame his body, creating black spots that began to converge over his already splotchy vision, and Alexander prepared himself to lose consciousness completely, knowing he would simply sink deeper and deeper into the cold, dark water of Nevis-

Arnold was ripped off of him, and he loudly inhaled the cold morning air desperately, uncaring of how the action burned his abused trachea. His bound wrists strained against the chain connected to the floor as they involuntarily reached towards the offending gag in his mouth that was only restricting his airflow further. As sensation began to return to his body, he was aware of a soft yet urgent hand grasping his shoulder as he laid doubled over on the floor, gently yet efficiently removing the gag tied behind his head letting sweet fresh air enter his abused lungs as body-shaking coughs escaped his mouth.

When his breathing finally leveled out to strained panting instead of desperate inhales, he flicked his eyes upward, confused at the kind hand still rubbing frantic circles into his bare back. Another sharp inhale, this time from shock, entered his lips as his eyes met a pair familiar ones full of fatherly concern. 

“Sir?”

It seemed George Washington had come after all. 

Figures.

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Dread entered Washington's stomach as the Boston skyline came into view as he rounded the corner of the uneven path he was riding on. 

He had left camp the night before almost immediately after Laurens had made his leave from his office, penning a hastily written note to Lafayette saying that he was in charge as he attended to urgent business that had come up in Boston. He had grabbed the few possessions he would need for travel, mounted his horse, and was off.

The usually strategic general was shocked at his own carelessness. He was blindly going into an obvious trap unprepared, willingly handing himself over to the British, and basically signing his own death warrant.

What was he  _ thinking _ ?

But it seemed that his logical side was not in control at the moment, all rational thought going out the window at the thought of Alexander being in the hands of the redcoats. 

He only prayed to any god that was listening that the foolish boy wasn’t hurt.

Logically, Washington knew the boy must be injured as the letter he had received was covered in his blood, covering his desk and staining his hands, but when he actually let himself think of what that meant…

His heart stubbornly told him that there must be some other explanation. 

The war-worn general had seen first hand how poorly the British treated their prisoners. Many of the men they had rescued died, not because they were killed in enemy hands, but later due to the extent of their injuries and physical trauma. He was haunted by images of soldiers burning from the inside as fever and infection took them or discovering that they passed away in their sleep after being told they would make a full recovery, their bodies succumbing unexpectedly to the sheer shock that they had suffered to their systems during their imprisonment. 

Unbidden, thoughts of Alexander, his body broken and brilliant mind gone from a raging fever. stilling then lying cold and lifeless beneath him trickled into his mind’s eye, and Washington shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around him to ward off not just the cold night’s air.

The dirt road beneath his horse’s feet became cobblestone just about an hour before sunrise as he finally entered Boston, the city looking bleaker and colder than he remembered it, almost as though it had withered under Britain’s negligent care. His heart began pounding in sync with the steady clinking of horse hooves on the ground as his fear increased ten-fold as one aspect of the city stood out to him the most. 

The dead silence. 

Arnold obviously ran an empire built upon those who were quiet and uncomplaining and Alexander was neither of those things. 

The general personally knew how loud-mouthed and stubborn his aide could be. In fact, there were some days when Washington almost tore his own hair out in frustration at the young man’s relentless and tireless antics. For the most part, however, he knew that it was a part of what made Alexander Alexander so he loved every headache inducing moment of the boy’s tirades. 

Arnold was not so patient. 

Washington knew from the time he spent as close friends with the man that he was quick to anger and slow to forgiveness. It was the reason why the ex-revolutionary had a grudge the size of Manhattan against the Virginian after all the years they had spent apart. 

The combination of Arnold’s short fuse and his hate for Washington spelled disaster, putting the two together was like throwing a match on gunpowder. In Hamilton’s case, Washington knew that the inevitable explosion would come sooner rather than later. 

With that bleak thought amplifying a slowly building headache, Washington finally arrived at the entrance of the fort, stomach flipping madly at the sight as the cool air of the harbor repelled any nausea that would otherwise be present. A sentry spotted him, and Washington opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could escape his lips, the gate was already being opened. With another sickening twist of his gut he realized that they must have been expecting him. 

The thought unsettled him even further as it dawned on him just how well Arnold knew his old friend. 

With a gentle kick and a soft spoken command, Washington spurred his horse to walk slowly into the courtyard feeling as though he was walking to the executioner’s block which, when he thought about it, he very well may have been. 

As soon as the gate closed behind him, the whispering started. Redcoats scattered around the courtyard stopped dead in their tracks to stare at the infamous general as he dismounted gracefully from his horse despite his madly shaking hands. Some looked at him in fear as though he would simply obliterate them where they stood with his presence alone. Other men simply glared with utter hatred with such intensity that Washington couldn’t help but feel taken aback. 

But that’s not what made his hands shake.

Washington was no stranger to the less favorable men who loved to inflict pain on others. He had seen it in his own soldiers, those who killed and maimed simply because, in their twisted minds, it was fun. He had seen the look of bloodlust in the eyes of too many men to be able to sleep comfortably at night without a pistol hidden securely underneath his pillow.

And he also knew the look of men who had satisfied it. 

If the general was not surrounded by an innumerable amount of enemy forces, he would have lunged at the small group of men that had caught his attention during his dismount, radiating their smugness at having caused pain. Even so, Washington sent them a look made of pure ice that would have sent even Lafayette running, as the general was no fool as to who was on the receiving end of their soldiers’ fun. 

At seeing his face, they grinned. 

It was in that moment that Washington admitted just how deep into trouble he was. He had absolutely no power here. The British could do to him what they wished and all he could do was be let him. They had him backed into a corner, and they all knew it. 

And Alexander was caught in the crossfire. 

A bead of cold sweat trickled down his face at their reaction, and as if on cue, the doors to the fort opened to reveal none other than Arnold himself. 

“George! It’s lovely to see you. It’s been a while hasn’t it?” his ex-friend exclaimed, a slightly unhinged grin stretching across his face as he came to stand just out of arm's reach of Washington. 

‘ _ Wise move,’ _ the Virginian thought darkly, jaw clenching in his efforts to restrain himself from simply lunging at the man who had taken his child. 

“I can’t say our separation has been unpleasant,” Washington replied carefully, willing to play Arnold’s game for now if it guaranteed Alexander’s safety later. 

Arnold’s fingers twitched were they laid at his side.

“No, I doubt it hasn’t,” Arnold said, smile still firmly in place, “Martha is doing well I presume?”

Anger flashed hot like a whip in George’s chest at both the mention of his wife coming from the traitor and the double-meaning behind it. His fingers clenched from where they were positioned behind his back.

“She’s well. You’ve read my letter, you should know for yourself how-,” 

“Ah, yes the letter!” the British general interjected as if suddenly remembering its existence, pretending that it was not the reason why they were both standing there in the first place, “One where a Mr. Hamilton was mentioned,” 

Finally, the grin on Arnold’s face shifted into something more sinister at the mention of Alexander and Washington knew the game was up.

“Where is he.”

It was not a question.

“Tut, tut, my dear general. I remember you having better manners. I am young Alexander’s host after all, “ Arnold said eyes hardening completely, the hatred for Washington that had been thinly veiled before shining through unashamedly. 

“Release my aid-de-camp he has no business being involved in the bad blood between us now that I’ve followed your directions,” Washington said in a near shout, letting his anger at the situation trickle through as well. 

“Oh no, Washington. He has everything to do with this. You guaranteed that yourself by coming here. You showed your hand, old friend, and Hamilton is the winnings. He is now my crown jewel in my grand scheme for your undoing,” Arnold said, dark glee radiating off of him as he saw the horror swirling in the Virginian’s eyes that was visible in the newly risen sun’s light.

What had he  _ done _ ?

He had assumed Arnold wanted Washington in Alexander’s place, with the turncoat content to sit and wait with his lesser prize until the general himself arrived to make the exchange. But no, Arnold simply wanted to confirm that Alexander was indeed as valuable as he first thought before he had his fun with both Hamilton and Washington at his disposal. Arnold knew that the best way to hurt Washington was to hurt someone he cared about, and the Virginian had stupidly confirmed it with his actions alone, putting his son in further danger.

“ _ No, _ ” Washington whispered in complete denial, stoic façade crumbling at the implications of Arnold’s statement. 

“Yes. I think it would be only proper that we pay Hamilton a visit now that you have arrived. Don’t you think?”

“ _ No!, _ ” Washington repeated, this time forcefully, his restraint snapping completely in his growing panic as he leaped to attack the despicable man in front of him. Hands finally converged on him, grabbing him at all sides as he strained and struggled against them, pushing him to follow Arnold who had turned and disappeared into the darkness of the fort’s walls. They harshly ushered him forward through the twist and turns of the hallways and after about the fifth bend Washington stopped resisting, knowing it was a futile cause and only gave Arnold more sick pleasure to see his desperate reaction. 

Too soon for Washington’s swirling mind, they stopped in front of a cell door and the general could hardly breathe as his breath fogged in front of him in small, fast puffs of air in the chilly hallway, chest constricting painfully as fear and anxiety encompassed his lungs. 

“Ah, Lieutenant Hamilton, up bright and early I see,” Arnold spoke suddenly cutting through the tense silence that filled the corridor. Washington dared not speak as the revenge driven man spoke to who could only be the boy who he saw as a son on the other side of the cell door. His breathing stopped completely in his anticipation to hear Alexander’s response, heart sinking in dread when he heard none. 

“I do hope my hospitality was up to your standards,” Arnold spoke again this time with a slight edge to his voice that Washington only picked up on from the years he spent with the man. Silence still reigned from the cell and the general’s fear spiked knowing Alexander was not playing Arnold’s game correctly and it would only be a matter of time until-

Without any warning, Arnold was swiftly unlocking and opening the door to Hamilton’s cell and that was when Washington entered full panic mode. He began struggling against the sets of hands holding him in earnest as Arnold disappeared from his line of sight. A small sound reached the Virginian’s ears as he wrestled with the soldier’s restraining him and his blood froze as his mind placed the unusual noise.

It was the sound of someone who was being strangled. 

A scream escaped the mouth of the redcoat on the general’s left as Washington unflinchingly popped the man’s knee cap out of place with a well-placed kick, and the soldier to his right was taken out a moment later by a powerful punch to the temple with his newly freed arm, rendering him unconscious. 

A lone guard ran out of the cell, blocking his path to its entrance while brandishing his rifle at Washington’s broad chest, and the two stared motionlessly at each other in a stalemate. 

“Call for reinforcements!” Arnold suddenly shouted, and the guard lost concentration, glancing at his left towards the direction of the yelled command. It was all the distraction Washington needed to grab the gun from him as it went off in the redcoat’s surprise, the bullet passing harmlessly over the general’s soldier, and the man joined his friends on the floor a moment later. 

The sight that he saw when he turned the corner would haunt Washington for the rest of his life. 

Arnold was there crouching over Hamilton with his hands securely around the young man’s neck, uncaringly and slowly draining the life out of him, and Alexander…

He already looked dead. 

With a shout of rage that went unheard to him over the buzzing in his ears, Washington tore off Arnold from his son, hitting him on the head aggressively with the rifle he still held a moment later, knocking him out cold. 

The gun slipped out of his numb fingers as he practically fell to his knees to land in front of Alexander who laid bonelessly on the ground, bare chest still heaving for air despite the lack of hands around his neck and Washington lips pursed in rage as his eyes found the gag wrapped around his mouth. With trained fingers, he made quick work of the knot, his hand unconsciously moving to Alexander’s shoulder in desperation to offer some type of comfort, but now that the boy was no longer at risk of immediate death from suffocation, Washington finally  _ looked  _ at him. 

His heart shattered into a million pieces. 

There was not an inch of exposed skin that was not covered in a dark bruise or a painful looking gash. His ribs looked especially painful, and if their mottled purple appearance was anything to go by, the general wouldn’t be surprised if a couple were broken. From where he had rested his hand \on Alexander’s shoulder, Washington felt like he had stuck his hand in a snowbank only a moment earlier, and the general didn’t think he had seen the boy this pale since his miraculous return from his dip in the Schuylkill river. A wave of physical pain went through him as he took in the blood tracks running down his son’s arms from where the shackles contacted painfully with his chafed skin, and one of his wrists seemed unusually swollen telling Washington that it was either sprained or broken. Then he made the mistake of looking down at Alexander’s leg. 

If anyone was there to witness it, they would have seen the usually rosy-cheeked general pale multiple shades to the point of transparency before his skin took on a green-like hue as what he was looking at processed. 

He had seen fatal bullet wounds, limbs blown off by cannons, bones crushed under the weight of horses, skulls blown wide open from a close range bullet, eyes sliced and blinded by flying shrapnel, men with their eyeballs bulging and tongues swelling from hangings...

And somehow seeing Alexander’s injury was worse than all of those images combined. 

“Oh God, Alexander,” he whispered salty tears stinging his eyes in physical response to his internal agony.

The sight alone made Washington want to curl up and weep, but he could not begin to imagine the pain that the wound caused the younger man. Because that’s what it looked like, an injury that was designed purely for the purpose of causing suffering. 

The stitches that were keeping the wound from worsening were in fact only holding the skin partly together at stretched, unnatural angles, the stitches sewn sloppily to make it look more like a bad patching job instead of a medical procedure. The skin was overlapped in some places causing it to peak and bump up in areas while other parts were not held together at all leaving the wound raw and exposed to the elements. The general had seen enough bullet wounds in his lifetime to recognize it for what it was, but the injury was impossibly wide signifying that it had been opened further by an outside source in an obvious attempt to cause further pain. Dazedly, his muddled brain comprehended that he could even see the white of bone in some spots.

  
Without Washington noticing, the hand he placed on Alexander’s shoulder had begun to move in quick circles, softly rubbing the skin there as if the boy in front of him would simply disappear if his hand stilled for even a moment. 

But then brown, bloodshot eyes were meeting his own. 

“Sir?” Alexander said, disbelief obvious in his tone even though his voice was gone from what the general hoped was from nearly being choked to death and not from screaming.

As he heard his aide-de-camp’s voice for the first time in five days, the general felt some of his anxiety that had persistently lingered since the Lee duel leave him in a rush of compassion that he only felt when he was in Alexander’s presence. 

_ ‘He’ll be okay,’  _ Washington told himself even as the yelling of redcoats began to echo through the nearby corridor.

Washington couldn’t make himself believe anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. Sounds like trouble. I hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter. Feel free to comment any thoughts you had and kudos are always welcome. Happy Holidays!
> 
> -Mwppff<3


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